‘You were given an order, Alchemist,’ sounded a deep, commanding voice. Thea would have known that voice anywhere. It had pulled her back from the brink of death, had whispered her name against her lips, had broken her heart in more ways than one… Silver eyes met hers and Thea’s breath caught. The Hand of Death towered above her, his powerfully built frame clad in black armour that dripped red. Against all reason, despite all her fury, that rich timbre skittered along her bones as Wilder Hawthorne leant in close and murmured, ‘Or should I call you “Princess” now?’
